Irrelevant Ideals
by VigoGrimborne
Summary: A short one-shot detailing a fragment of what exactly happens when Hiccup is pushed to abandon his ideals in defense of his best friend. A scene that wouldn't leave my head until I did it justice.


_**Author's Note:**_ **This was inspired by something I wrote recently, in which it was implied that Hiccup was likely capable of snapping just as Toothless was. I did not explore that idea there, but this short scene took root when I wrote that. It would not stop bothering me until I put it onto paper, and as the style is so different from what I usually write, I could find nowhere it would fit in my current stories. Note that this is, by nature, intended to be dark. It is also by nature a fragment, though there is a simple plot implied.**

A man stands alone. Not simply alone, something more profound. He is not only devoid of companions, physically alone, but something about him suggests to observers that he is not even with himself, that some part of him is missing.

Physically, he is tall, though not extremely so. His eyes glint green in the pale sunlight, what little falls behind the mask.

Yes, he is wearing a mask. It is not worn for anonymity, for he cannot hide his identity. The mask covers most of his face, textured to evoke the idea of scales, a midnight black. Two red sections break the darkness above and to either side of his eyes, pure red and smooth, unlike the rest of it.

His body armor is similarly designed, a complete suit covered in textured black and smooth red, black far outweighing red. Even his boot is dyed black.

Boot, because his other leg seems to naturally terminate in an efficient prosthetic, a bent loop of iron that forms the idealized shape held by a foot in nature. It naturally projects out of his armor, the line between man and replacement blurred by the scale-textured armor.

He would be intimidating, and indeed is somewhat, but there is something about his posture that suggests weakness. It is not a weakness of a physical sense, for he is deceptively strong. Nor is it a weakness of will. He will continue despite anything thrown at him, will weather the storm no matter what it tears from him in the process. No, it is a weakness born of lack. Lack of something, though what cannot be discerned at the moment. He is strong, but not at his full potential. That is apparent in the way he stands, the look in his eyes. He will fight, but it is a known fact that he is not _complete_. Formidable, but not as formidable as he could be.

That is the crux of it. Despite physical appearances, he is not whole, and so he is vulnerable. Unhappy, unsatisfied with matters as they stand. Angry, though that is a symptom of the situation at hand.

The situation at hand. The man alone stands among a throng of warriors, brutish men with scowls and heavy weapons. Men that are, despite all attempts to conceal it, afraid. It is not his reputation, the whispered accounts of his deeds that scares them. Those are simply a specter over his shoulder that calmly informs them they've angered something more than a mere man. No, that is not what scares them. Maybe it is the look in his eyes, the cold rage that waits, reserved for one more important than them. The knowledge that they, for all of their strength, are not even important enough to resent, to hate.

Or maybe it is the shrieking of a devil that echoes hauntingly across the scene, the way the stranger's anger visibly becomes less controllable with each unholy scream. They are not sure what is going on behind them, what is happening with their leader and the demon, and they do not want to find out. Not knowing what is occurring is their only defense. Their only defense against the loner's blazing fury. If they knew, that wrath would immediately be directed at them. Ignorance, that little sliver of innocence, is the only thing stopping him from ripping them apart.

Not personally, though he'd like to. He is all too well aware of the power he wields, a power given of trust and empathy. Strength in a way these men know, formed in a way totally alien to them. So he hesitates, unsure. Being incomplete always hinders his decisions, clouds his emotions. But not his planning ability. He had already prepared for this, to do whatever it would take.

He speaks, his voice the calm before an impossibly violent storm. He requests, quite clearly, that those who desire to live leave this place. That those who desire total amnesty and a better way of life join him now or forever regret their decision.

It is not a threat, but a statement of truth and a promise. The power in his voice sways a few of them, those few shoving past their neighbors to leave the throng, retreating from the standoff. They may be hunted down as traitors, but something inside them whispers that such a fate is not the worst that could come for them. The worst, the whispers say, is about to happen to those who stand in the incomplete stranger's way.

He waits impatiently until those few who chose the wise path have gotten clear. These warriors have orders to leave him alive and able to observe, but unable to approach. Their leader is a twisted one, though in a cruel and petty way.

Still. The loner has appeased his conscience, what little of it that objects given the circumstances. He calls up Hel to clear the way.

That is what it looks like to those few who chose life. They watch, horrified and awed, as the ground around the incomplete loner erupts, dirt and stone alike flying like dust in a rough circle, obscuring him. Those soldiers who remained began to scream, pained and agonized shouts cutting off abruptly in succession, the explosions of dirt and rock obscuring what is truly killing them, tearing them apart, from sight. Only flashes of grey spike and whip-like bodies disprove the use of black magic in this horrific feat of sudden death and destruction. The screeches of pain from the devil taper off, a low whine the last thing to break the sudden silence.

The dust clears, and the ground around the stranger is revealed. The stranger himself is unharmed, standing where he was before. He grimaces, walking quickly across a narrow ridge of ground, the only path now available.

There is no sign of those who opposed him. Maybe that is better, though it is unsettlingly eerie. Large holes puncturing the ground where the warriors stood, a bloodstain here or there, but no sign of the men themselves. Just those ominous holes, deep without an apparent bottom, curling and twisting if one looked into them.

The loner does not look down, does not need to see what he knows is there. It goes against what he stands for, what has just happened, but morals are secondary to his current goal. His petty foe does not seem to understand that.

Or did not. The man looks up from his activity, noting with shock that the incomplete loner is approaching, as unstoppable as the tide. The man's sadistic grin fades as he realizes what a terrible miscalculation he has made. The few guards he has assisting him are sent to intercept the loner, despite the futility of that.

It is indeed futile. The first guard dies before his raised sword can even be lowered, a strange construct of iron sticking straight through his throat and out the back of his neck. This too is unexpected by the sadistic one. The loner is well known for his empathy, his compassion even granted to enemies.

Not today. Not here. The other guard falls to a subdued explosion, the loner unharmed by his own fire.

The sadistic one raises his whip, his attention now solely on the one he had meant to torment in a way so much worse than physical pain. The one he had enraged far past the point of morals or restraint.

No words are said by either. The loner's green eyes blaze with pure rage, taking in the sight the sadistic one was so carefully crafting, the sight designed to break the loner with helpless despair.

But the loner is not helpless, not now. Far from it. So what was supposed to be despair is instead rage. He surges forward, now breaking the steady and unstoppable progression in a burst of speed born of the situation.

The sadistic one struggles to breathe, his whip dropped and forgotten as his neck is crushed. The loner may not have visible muscles, but the sadistic one is not a large man, and the loner is at the moment imbued with a strength far beyond normal. He has slammed the sadistic one against a nearby wall, pinning him above the ground by the throat, fingers cutting off air. After a few long moments, the incomplete loner pulls away and drops the sadistic one, letting him crumple to the ground.

Uncaring of the sadistic one's agony, the loner ignores him in favor of angrily slamming his odd sword into the chains, the strengthened metal connecting with and shattering the weak links of each chain. Each breaks, the stress of restraining the demon and the raging blows of the loner irresistible in their combined power.

The demon surges forward, ignoring the bleeding stripes running across its wings, its back, its face. One stripe crosses directly over its eye, though the eye was protected by the similarly scarred eyelid. Its first act is to slam its head into the loner's chest, whining. The loner returns the an awkward hug, careful to avoid the bleeding stripe across the dragon's face.

It becomes obvious to the few watching from afar that this is why the loner had been dubbed incomplete in their minds. The black armor textured as scale makes sense now, as does the loner's power. The loner and the demon are halves of a whole. From afar their silhouettes blend, and it becomes unclear where one ends and the other begins.

They had known that the loner rode the dragon known for its speed and power as the unholy offspring of lightning and death itself. But none of the rumors had conveyed this. The man, a loner no longer, murmurs and comforts the demon, visibly shocked and saddened by the mistreatment it has suffered. A moment passes in which the two are content, no longer separated.

Then they turn as one, their faces darkening. The man and dragon converge on the sadistic one, who has only now recovered from his brief brush with danger.

This time there will be no recovering. Those watching avert their eyes, though they are not disgusted. Hardened warriors, it is apparent to them that the sadistic one only got what he deserved, and had his punishment dealt out by the very one he had mistreated.

The dragon shakes his head angrily, his nostrils still glowing a faint blue. Despite the rage they both feel, he had made it a quick death, far more than the sadistic one deserved. The time for anger, rage, was over. It was not an emotion familiar to either of them, one they both despised.

The man carefully tended to the dragon's wounds, his face drawn and sorrowful as he cared for each lash mark, especially the one across the dragon's face. The dragon bears it calmly, flinching only slightly as each wound is treated.

The man laughs sadly once he is done, teasing the dragon gently about now looking more grizzled, and how that might affect his chances with any elusive female they might run across. The dragon snorts, mood lifted by the feeble joke. Proof neither of them has been broken by recent events.

The man searches for and locates the dragon's flight gear, a false tailfin riddled with gears and a saddle, black and sleek. After a moment's consideration, the man leaves the saddle, only attaching the prosthetic tail. He carefully climbs onto the dragon's back, taking the utmost caution to avoid raw spots and lash marks, despite the difficulty of such a task.

Once the man is secure, the dragon launches off the ground, wings beating in spite of the evident pain, taking the two away from the place in which it was discovered morals and lofty ideals came second to protecting the bond they shared.

To the few watching warriors, it was clear. The two were only whole when together. Flying away, it was impossible to tell where the unholy offspring of lightning and death itself ended and where the man capable of commanding the respect of demons began.

The man capable of snapping like an enraged dragon, discarding the ideals that elevate him above the common man in defense of something more valuable than his own conscience.


End file.
